but I don’t tell him everything. I don’t tell him that when I was trapped, all I could think about was going home. But now that I’m free, the thought of returning to the Yard makes me want to puke my heart out.
I can’t face them.
They’d see a relative, a friend, when there’s only a walking, talking scar.
I finish the story of my so-called escape.
“Is there anything else?” the General says.
“No,” I say.
And once again, General Torrent can’t hide his true feelings from me, as his wing droops with disappointment and despair. He is ashamed of me, of course. But even more than that, he hates himself for believing in me.
Still, the General says, “I’m sure this information will prove invaluable to the cause.”
“Right,” I say.
“This may be too much to ask, but in my role, I’m often disallowed the luxury of courtesy. So I beseech you, cousin. Would you postpone your journey home to remain in our hutment for the time being? I’ll have more questions for you in the days to come.”
And, naturally, what he’s really saying is, “Could you help me to create an illusion of progress in order to bolster morale?”
I can’t help them win the war. But I do know something about putting on a show.
So I say, “Sure.”
*
General Torrent invites me to the battlefield the same way he invites me to tea. With a grin, and a look of tenderness in his eyes.
And, once again, I accept.
Swan sits beside me, on the branch. Just in case a Goblin decides to climb the tree and slay me.
Of course, this won’t happen.
The Goblins are too busy being slaughtered.
“Why don’t they have a fighter with them?” I say.
And Swan says, “Lucky for us, sir, not all Goblins can afford bodyguards. General says the economic stratification of Gob society is one of the few weak points we can exploit. ”
“Ah.”
The brutality I faced at the Farm felt so real. Too real. But now, looking down on the violence below, I feel detached. Numb.
I watch as the circle of Gnomes overpower the parents, and close in on the Goblin youngling.
“What’s the point of killing them?” I say.
“What do you mean, sir?” Swan says.
“They’re obviously not Farmers. What good can come from this?”
“General says this is a war of societies. Maybe these Gobs don’t work at the Farm, but they eat the Gnomes kept there. They’re part of the system. And any affront to that system will benefit our cause.”
“I see.”
My forehead’s starting to throb, and I blame the thoughts clustering in my head. So I focus on the battle again.
Like General Torrent, many of the Gnomes aren’t quite natural bodied. They have shells, claws, scales.
One soldier has a horn jutting out of his eye socket.
Another has a fox head for a hand.
And I say, “I’m surprised you managed to recruit conjurers into your army. The Stonesouls seemed bent on never leaving the Yard, back when I was living there.”
“The Stonesouls remain as stubborn as ever, sir. They refuse to fight with us.”
“Then who’s doing the conjuring?”
“General says the creative minds of the Thundersouls are conducive to spellcasting. Given enough practice.”
I should’ve guessed, but maybe I didn’t want to believe the General could make such a reckless mistake.
There’s no way a Thundersoul could ever properly invoke a spirit. This requires a stillness of mind, a quieting of inner demons that a Gnome like me could never achieve.
Believe me, I’ve tried.
*
Once again, my mind paints a dreamscape of the Farm. I see smears of blood, blurry faces. Sometimes I’m a prisoner. Sometimes I’m a guard.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
The nightworld used to barrage me with sanguine images that I channeled into my plays. Even in the worst of times, I gave the Yard hope. I insisted the meaning of life was home and love.
But now I know that everything’s meaningless.
And the thunder of my soul is silenced.
So instead of writing my dreams into a notebook
I can’t face them.
They’d see a relative, a friend, when there’s only a walking, talking scar.
I finish the story of my so-called escape.
“Is there anything else?” the General says.
“No,” I say.
And once again, General Torrent can’t hide his true feelings from me, as his wing droops with disappointment and despair. He is ashamed of me, of course. But even more than that, he hates himself for believing in me.
Still, the General says, “I’m sure this information will prove invaluable to the cause.”
“Right,” I say.
“This may be too much to ask, but in my role, I’m often disallowed the luxury of courtesy. So I beseech you, cousin. Would you postpone your journey home to remain in our hutment for the time being? I’ll have more questions for you in the days to come.”
And, naturally, what he’s really saying is, “Could you help me to create an illusion of progress in order to bolster morale?”
I can’t help them win the war. But I do know something about putting on a show.
So I say, “Sure.”
*
General Torrent invites me to the battlefield the same way he invites me to tea. With a grin, and a look of tenderness in his eyes.
And, once again, I accept.
Swan sits beside me, on the branch. Just in case a Goblin decides to climb the tree and slay me.
Of course, this won’t happen.
The Goblins are too busy being slaughtered.
“Why don’t they have a fighter with them?” I say.
And Swan says, “Lucky for us, sir, not all Goblins can afford bodyguards. General says the economic stratification of Gob society is one of the few weak points we can exploit. ”
“Ah.”
The brutality I faced at the Farm felt so real. Too real. But now, looking down on the violence below, I feel detached. Numb.
I watch as the circle of Gnomes overpower the parents, and close in on the Goblin youngling.
“What’s the point of killing them?” I say.
“What do you mean, sir?” Swan says.
“They’re obviously not Farmers. What good can come from this?”
“General says this is a war of societies. Maybe these Gobs don’t work at the Farm, but they eat the Gnomes kept there. They’re part of the system. And any affront to that system will benefit our cause.”
“I see.”
My forehead’s starting to throb, and I blame the thoughts clustering in my head. So I focus on the battle again.
Like General Torrent, many of the Gnomes aren’t quite natural bodied. They have shells, claws, scales.
One soldier has a horn jutting out of his eye socket.
Another has a fox head for a hand.
And I say, “I’m surprised you managed to recruit conjurers into your army. The Stonesouls seemed bent on never leaving the Yard, back when I was living there.”
“The Stonesouls remain as stubborn as ever, sir. They refuse to fight with us.”
“Then who’s doing the conjuring?”
“General says the creative minds of the Thundersouls are conducive to spellcasting. Given enough practice.”
I should’ve guessed, but maybe I didn’t want to believe the General could make such a reckless mistake.
There’s no way a Thundersoul could ever properly invoke a spirit. This requires a stillness of mind, a quieting of inner demons that a Gnome like me could never achieve.
Believe me, I’ve tried.
*
Once again, my mind paints a dreamscape of the Farm. I see smears of blood, blurry faces. Sometimes I’m a prisoner. Sometimes I’m a guard.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
The nightworld used to barrage me with sanguine images that I channeled into my plays. Even in the worst of times, I gave the Yard hope. I insisted the meaning of life was home and love.
But now I know that everything’s meaningless.
And the thunder of my soul is silenced.
So instead of writing my dreams into a notebook
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